


Power Outage

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [127]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Banter, Bickering, Car Chases, Car Sex, Communication, Curtain Fic, Dean Winchester's Birthday, Domestic, Domestic Dean Winchester, Domestic Sam Winchester, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Gender Identity, Genderfluid Character, Genderqueer Sam Winchester, Growing Old Together, Grumpy Dean Winchester, Grumpy Old Men, Inspired by The Twilight Zone, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Old Married Couple, Post Series, Sex in a Car, Twilight Zone References, blues brothers references, inspired by the blues brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 07:46:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17618360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: The power goes out at exactly eleven eleven at night on January 23rd.Should Sam and Dean go back to sleep or should they have fun?





	Power Outage

 

 

The power goes out at exactly eleven eleven at night on January 23rd.

Sam shuffles over to the thermostat in the living room. In inky darkness, he keeps one hand on his shawl to prevent it from slipping off his shoulders. A few cursory taps at the damn thermostat yields nothing. The weather app on his phone helpfully points out that outside, it is a sweltering five degrees, but feels more like negative seventeen.

Despite the haze of his chilled mind, Sam remembers a spell for this situation. All he needs are a few feathers from a snow owl, twigs from white oak tree, a bowl of pure, fresh snow, and the howling winds of an avalanche.

Looking around, Sam finds down feathers from the new pillows Dean bought at Macy’s, a pack of matches from the Green Mill, and a frigid Chicago wind chill.

“Tell me it ain’t broke,” Dean grumbles, tying his robe closed and slowly advancing towards the living room, cane in hand.

Sam huffs and rolls his eyes. “It’s not broken. It’s just taking a break.”

“Don’t lie to me, Sam.” He scrubs his face and squints at the thermostat. “Goddammit, I told you we should have bought a house with a fireplace.”

“It wasn’t a lie. It was bullshit,” Sam quips. “I took the liberty of bullshitting you.”

Dean grins, his face illuminated by the dim light from the street lamps outside. Shadows frame his eyes. “Okay, Elwood. Mind telling me what we do now?”

Way back when, John dropped them off at a bowling alley for what was supposed to be a few hours. He thought Sam and Dean could use a few hours practicing their aim and dexterity, or some true bullshit like that. Mack, the bartender and manager, put them on lane seven and told them not to break their fingers doing stupid shit. Wise advice.

On the blurry scoreboard, Sam put in his name as Orlando. Dean chose the eloquent title of IC Weiner. It wasn’t so bad at alley. There were more ashtrays than people, the rental shoes were only slightly damp, and with the five bucks between them, they bought two bottles of Coke and greasy nachos served in a plastic shell. Sam watched Dean throw a bowling ball the color of the moon, the muscles in his arms and back more alluring than any game.

As pins fell, so did Sam’s resolve to be on his best behavior. He was fourteen. His favorite drink was strawberry milkshakes with extra whipped cream.

Half an hour in their game, the power went out.

Mack shouted at someone named Bob on an olive green phone that looked like it had been bought in pristine condition back in 1971. He didn’t notice Sam pull Dean by the collar into the skeletal men’s room.

“Guess we get on the phone with ComEd,” Sam murmurs, his tone bored and distant. “You know, just to stay on hold for an hour, then have them charge us to send a tech out.”

Dean scowls. The lines around his brow and on the sides of his mouth run deep. He takes the book of Green Mill matches, tears one out, and lights the two votive candles on the coffee table. The gray hairs at his temple possess a distinct shine despite the lack of electricity.

“Wonder if it’s just us,” Dean sighs and steps over to the nearest window overlooking their street.

“I checked the neighborhood page on Facebook. Looks like it is just us.”

“Hmm.”

Sam stands next to Dean, not an inch of space between them. “We can’t stay here. No telling when they’ll fix it.”

“Yeah, yeah. Where’s my knife.”

“If you’re planning on buttering toast, I’m gonna tell you right now that the toaster does not run on batteries.”

“You got jokes, huh?”

“Yes. Yes I do. Let’s get dressed.”

“I hate power outages.”

“I thought you hated the House of Mirrors.”

“I hate that too.”

“Since you’re so full of hate, maybe you’ll stay warm.”

“You’re in a suspiciously good mood, Sam.”

“And you’re in a predictably bad mood, Dean.”

“I feel like I’m in the goddamn Twilight Zone.”

“In the dark eternity of all evil men?”

“What’s that from?”

“The episode with the guy from the 1800’s time travels to the mid-1900’s.”

“Not my favorite.”

“Wear layers, please.”

“It may be said, with a degree of assurance, Sammy, that not everything that meets the eye is as it appears. I’m clearly wearing underwear. That counts as a layer.”

“You do the worst Rod Serling impression.”

“In the dimension of imagination, I do the best Rod Serling impression. Are you ready or you wanna nag at me more before we freeze?”

“Don’t make me choose. Yes, I’m ready. Let’s go.”

“Where the hell are we going, anyway?”

“No place where you’re gonna need your knife, gun, and holy water.”

“Hey. You pack what you want and I’ll pack what I want.”

Outside, the stars shine as clear as polished bone. Stardust might just sift down from the clouds, into a silver bucket held upside down. As he stands on the driveway, leaning against the Impala, Sam breathes in colder than cold air. His lungs complain, but a certain rush of emotions floods the rest of his body. He watches Dean check on Mrs. Martinez, who answers the door wrapped in her robe and San Marcos lion blanket. Sam waves to her.

“She offered,” Dean reports.

“Of course she did.”

“Where are we going?”

“Just a place I know.”

“That’s reassuring and absolutely answers my question in great detail, thanks.”

“Dean. Get in the car.”

“Don’t you tell me what to do with my car, my baby.”

“Are you calling me or the car baby?”

“Get in and give me directions, asshat.”

 

They drive on a long, lonely stretch of I-55 South.

Dean drives, because of course he does. Sam daydreams, because of course he does. He watches the landscape change from billboards to scrap yards to wave after wave of empty, snow-covered lots.

There was a snowstorm in Minnesota on a night like this forty years ago.

The town John had them holed up wasn’t big enough to have lodging. He rented a house for a week, though to call it a house was generous. It was a shack with three twin beds in one room and an indoor outhouse in the other room. Dean dragged out the toaster oven from the Impala and managed to make them toast to go along with a few dented cans of Spaghettios for dinner. John took a slice of toast, doled out instructions, and left. It looked like he walked into the snow and disappeared in its grasp.

For Sam and Dean, their object of the night was not to hunt down whatever left mangled pieces of bodies in the woods, illuminated by carefully, thoughtfully placed lanterns.

That particular property of terror was not their concern.

Their goal was to stay warm.

Sam issues the vaguest directions at the last possible second. This exit. This turn. Stay to the left. He remembers Dean’s defiant fight to start a controlled fire inside a copper bowl he found underneath one of the beds. There were crude markings on the inside and outside of the bowl; they both took a moment to run their fingers over them. Latin? English? Celtic?

Nothing they could recognize or understand.

Sam sacrificed _The Principles of Biochemistry._ He tore pages from the outdated text--it was a 1970 edition he paid a quarter for at a gas station in Kentucky--and lined the inside of the bowl. Dean chucked in a few dusty pieces of wood recovered from inside the broken stove. Within a few minutes, Sam watched a diagram of the male anatomy succumb to the crackling blaze.

The car stops and so do Sam’s memories.

In a deserted parking lot, a police car from the seventies absorbs any and all light radiating from the single, solitary lamp post. All the markings for spaces hide underneath a veil of snow.

Dean never takes his hands off the steering wheel. The radio, which had been at the lowest volume, shuts off without either one of them touching the dial.

“Is this an Old Yeller situation?” Dean inspects their barren surroundings. “I gotta say, I’m not surprised.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Sam states and opens his door. “We switch cars here.”

“Is that hunk of junk gonna get me to a bed and some freaking sleep?”

“You’ll like this car.”

“That coming from someone who thinks the Prius is a good car.”

“Quit being such a baby.”

“Whatever’s going on, I have the right to be a baby about it. Let me carry your duffle.”

“I got it.”

“Where’s your cane?”

“Don’t need it.”

“So PT is finally paying off, huh?”

“We can talk about that later. Don’t lock the car.”

“I’m not leavin’ baby out in the middle of nowhere exposed to whoever walks the fuck past.”

“So write a symbol on the window, but don’t lock it.”

“Don’t lock _her_ ,” Dean grumbles. Ivory light casts over Dean’s freckles. Approaching the police car, Dean asks a question, one that sounds as if it has been rattling around his mind and mouth for quite some time. “You… you ever want me to change your pronouns?”

This should be a Big Deal. The kind of question that launches Sam into the most epic of brooding sessions, complete with angsty music and hours of internal anguish. He’s put in enough brooding and anguish to last three lifetimes. So instead, Sam smiles and laughs.

He shakes his head, then opens the car. “I like the system we got. Don’t feel a need to change it.”

The driver’s side door of the cop car squeaks open. “You know where we should go one of these days?”

“I will never go back to a monster truck rally, Dean.”

“Pft, your loss. No, I was talking about Kingston Mines. That place up in Lincoln Park.”

“Any particular reason or just because?”

Dean inspects the dashboard and takes the keys offered to him. He revs up the car without a hitch, a clear surprise since he raises his eyebrows and nods. “Hmm. Color me surprised this thing started at all.”

Headlights flood the parking lot.

“Also,” Dean adds, settling into the driver’s seat. “Just seems like a thing we should do.”

With a shrug, Sam opens up a paper map. “You hate Lincoln Park.”

“We’ll go late.”

“You have to drive through Lakeview to get there.”

“We’ll fly.”

Roads and highways spread out, brutally painted veins and arteries. Most of these trajectories Sam knows. John left them patches of I-88, I-90, I-355, I-55, I-57, Route 52, Route 71, Route 38--heirlooms of a haunted man.

Dean elbows Sam. “We goin’ anywhere or you just wanna sit pretty?”

“Yup. Get back onto the main road, go west for ten miles.”

“You know, all I wanted to do was go back to sleep.”

“For someone with so much muscle, you sure do whine a lot.”

“Hmph.” Although he’s wearing layers and a heavy coat, Sam knows with absolute certainty that Dean just flexed his biceps. “What’s after these ten miles?”

“I’ll tell you when we get there.”

“Jeez,” Dean scoffs and rolls his eyes. “That’s helpful.”

“Do you want to sleep or do you want to have a good time?”

A beat of silence.

Reluctantly, Dean answers, “Good time.”

Stretching his legs out, Sam nods and smiles. “Then drive on.”

 

The lady of blessed acceleration does not fail them or the cop car. Scenery flies past, making it all look like an impressionist painting up close. The engine purrs. Dean’s shoulders relax as he and the car engage in their symbiosis.

At the ten mile mark, Sam instructs Dean to take a right.

“Right where?”

“Here. There. Up ahead. Anywhere.”

“Oh, so I’m supposed to just veer off the road and drive through a cornfield at eighty miles an hour at one in the morning? Are we gonna end up in front of the Largest Boots in Texas by the end of this?”

“Technically, you’re only going seventy.”

Dean clenches his jaw, sits up straight, and the road abruptly transforms into ethereal cornstalks. Fifty feet in, the cop car skids onto secluded back road, the gravel on it a mixture of velvet black and indigo blue. A permanent azure filter settles over the landscape and refuses to let go. No street lamps. No stop lights. No other cars. They unlock a portion of the journey.

Flowers the color of plums defiantly grow on the side of the road, daring any passing vehicle to a boxing match.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam catches a glimpse of his reflection, distorted in the dirty window. Layers of dust, rust, salt, and mud manipulate and multiply the lines on Sam’s face. Wrinkles turn into gaping chasms. The lines on his forehead stretch to form snarling, secondary and tertiary mouths.

Dirty window?

Or instrument of truth?

Dean’s voice plucks him away from the swell of sulfuric, wayward thoughts.

“Why are we in this hunk of junk?”

“You don’t like it?”

“I bet this thing leaks oil like it owns every well in Texas.”

“That’s season two, Rod Serling.”

“Way to dodge the question.”

“You know, an old cop car still drives like a cop car. Cop tires. Cop suspension. Cop shocks.”

“Thanks again, Elwood.”

“You’re quite welcome, Jake.”

“She drives alright, but she ain’t baby.”

“Why do people refer to cars with female pronouns?”

“Patriarchal bullshit,” Dean grumbles and shrugs. “But also, she’s just baby.”

“Talk to me more about patriarchal bullshit.”

“Why? You’re the Professor.”

“Oh, I see. So I’m the only one with brains.”

“Hey, hey, hey. No one said _that_.”

“So prove it.”

Dean’s mouth splinters into a frown. He rubs his jaw. The car accelerates. Clay on the path mixes in with gravel and splatters against the car like an arterial spray.

“If we fucking took out the stigma against cis men dating trans women, there’d be a shit ton less violence. Less murders. Less pointless violence.” Dean twists in his seat, an attempt to fend off the gathering tension in his shoulders and neck. “Toxic masculinity and all that garbage.”

Somewhere, way back when on their exclusive, isolated, timeline, Dean dragged Sam out of a library and onto the shoreline of a lake. Or maybe it was the ocean. Or a pond. Or a flooded parking lot. Or the so-called jacuzzi at the Lucky Cuss Econo Motel. It was a place with water and they were both young. They were both completely immersed in each other and surviving the question mark that was John.

“Did someone give you shit?” Sam turns to better examine Dean. He reads the subtle movement in the muscles of Dean’s face, catches the clench of his jaw.

“It’s done. I took care of it,” Dean bites out.

Sam runs a hand through his own hair. “Okay. In what way?”

Dean replies in a voice darker than the road and infinitely more sinister. “I don’t appreciate assumptions made based on who I sleep with or don’t sleep with.”

Way back when, at the shore or the edge of that water, Dean took handfuls of Sam’s hair and braided two strands to frame Sam’s face. He ran his thumbs over Sam’s cheekbones and murmured stories about mermaids, shell spirits, and waves pulling people under. That’s how it felt, Dean had said, to spend time with Sam. Together and alone. Alone and together. Dragged under something powerful. Murky. Paralyzing. Inundated in gasping, twisting pleasure.

It was a quiet, tender moment between them in their loud, violent lives.

There were times when Sam would steal a pair of panties from wherever he could manage as a teenager. He might wear them for Dean and tease him about the color, the texture, the pattern of lace.

Yet there were also innumerable times when Sam would wear them for himself.

Not once did Dean make him feel abnormal for wearing panties. Or skirts. Or spaghetti strap tank tops.

Or for curling up with whatever threadbare quilt, duvet, blanket he could find and wanting to be left alone with his thoughts and faraway dreams.

He gets the same kind of comfort now by reaching for an orange Walgreens bottle and taking out one of his low-dose estrogen pills. His hair is softer. Certains parts of his body react with increased sensitivity and pleasure. His face and skin feel smoother. It’s like an access road to a body he feels comfortable in.

Like climbing into a hammock on a summer day, swaying underneath oak trees.

“I like where I am with this,” Sam murmurs and pats Dean’s knee. “Sometimes I wish I’d started sooner. Sometimes I think things might’ve been worse if I had.”

Green eyes glance over. The cornfield basks in its endless expanse; the car glides right through it.

“I’d go all the way with you,” Dean says, his honesty apparent despite his protective growl. “Anything you want. Surgery. Name change. Pronouns. Slaughtering those who cross you. Just give me the word.”

Some motels had rusty keys with plastic tags--the numbers and letters of the rooms scrawled on with a weak Sharpie or, worse, ballpoint pen. Some had keypads. Some attempted card keys. All of them seemed to have the same kind of mildew carpet and fuzzy toilet seat cover the color of boiled leeks.

If John knew anything about them together and Sam alone, he didn’t let on. He said nothing.

Dean has just said _something_.

Sam smiles and laughs in relief.

First it was the stroke. Then it was recovery from the stroke. He finished PT two weeks ago. Walter drops by only twice a week now. His left hand will refuse to cooperate at times, but what is life without a challenge or two along the way. Imaging, bloodwork, cognitive tests have all come back clear.

What has really helped though, is the effect of estradiol on his mood.

Who would have known that something so seemingly ordinary could cause a profound sense of calm?

There are so many possibilities.

“I just…” Sam starts, but pauses for a moment. “I just wanted to get a taste of what it would feel like beyond clothes and hair. More than just the fantasy in my mind.”

“And?”

“It’s good.” He smiles and ties his hair back into a ponytail. “I look in the mirror and I like what I see a lot better than before. But maybe it’s a combination of things. Maybe I’ve learned I can have the best of both worlds.”

Dean rubs his chin in thought. “Yeah, I can see that.”

“I spent so much time hating myself for so many different reasons.”

“Preaching to the choir, Sammy.”

“Dean.”

“Yeah?”

“I think… I think I’m not one or the other. You know?”

“I’ve known people like that. Not one or the other.”

“When?”

“Hey, I have a life outside you.”

“Yeah,” Sam snickers. “Okay. Well, you know what’s more painful than self-loathing? Electrolysis.”

“I was gonna say a bikini wax, but sure.”

“Nope. Electrolysis is a hundred times worse. So you know, I decided, fuck that. I’m not gonna do it.”

“Alright.”

“I like my beard.”

“You hate mine.”

“I don’t hate your beard, I hate the beard burn on my thighs.”

“Whatever, jerk.”

“Part of me is terrified someone will call me the Bearded Lady.”

“I’ll rip their lungs out.”

“Easy.” Sam tries to stop bouncing his leg. “But then I think to myself, what’s so wrong with being the Bearded Lady? She kicks ass. Remember the Lady we met at that one carnival in Nebraska?”

“Harriet,” Dean snorts. “Or, ‘Just call me Harry.’”

“She was a badass.”

“Point. Okay--but what happens when the world gets so goddamn ugly?”

“For starters, you talk to the kids at the Center.”

“I scare ‘em.”

“You don’t scare them. You confuse them. Like Vic.”

“Blond kid?”

“Yeah. He’s not scared of you. He just has no idea how to approach you when you walk into the Center with your grumpy old man schtick.”

“If I’m a grumpy old man, what does that make you?”

“Utterly perfect,” Sam quips. “Vic is the one who introduced me to Marla.”

“The one who used to work for the Fed?”

“Mmhmm. I like spending time there. I wish… sometimes it’d be cool to be a teenager now.”

“I’ve been there, done that, and I’m good.”

“Not as part of some witch’s spell, sheesh. I’m just saying. I wonder what it’s like to grow up in this kind of social environment.”

“You’re speaking way too many words for this hour of night, Professor. I don’t even know where we’re going but this road goes on for-the fuck-ever.”

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway. You know how Vic and some of the other kids put it? They say, ‘I couldn’t be happier or more grateful to be who I am.’ I will take that over any Dr. Phil shit anyday.”

The moon shines down and reflects onto the snow. Everything is crystalized. Everything is the motor running and Dean driving and Sam sitting right next to him.

It’s been a good night.

Up until...

Blue and red lights burst in the rear view mirror--ominous fireworks of warning. The siren that accompanies the ol’ red, white, and blues screeches its accusations.

This could be a variety of moments throughout their lives.

Except the place is here, the time is now, and the journey into the shadows no longer frightens them.

“Looks like there’s two,” Sam says with a short laugh and stretches out in his seat.

Dean leans back into the driver’s seat, then starts half-cackling, half-heckling. “State cops with nothing more to do than chase _moi_ down a country road at two in the goddamn morning.”

“So lose ‘em.”

In a haunting, captivating series of elegant motions, Dean changes gears. He slams his foot down on the brake and turns the wheel to the left. The tires squeal. Wisps of smoke emerge from the hood. The shock absorbers demand a ritual sacrifice to continue working like this.

Both cops try to stop on a dime and fail. They spin out, lights and sirens blazing.

“Woo!” Dean hollers and starts to laugh. “I’m not fuckin’ around, assholes!”

“Third car just showed up,” Sam warns, not trying to hide his smile. “They’re paging for more backup in pursuit of a black 1978 Dodge.”

Dean can drive any car, any where, any time.

Even if a pack of Illinois Nazis were hot on his tail.

The speedometer reads one hundred and five. Breakneck speed and the cops almost keep up. Almost. Dean takes a hard right, then a left. An undercover cop car strikes on their six, an ambush, hitting the rear bumper. A second car on their three materializes out of shadow and fog.

One of the cops utilizes their megaphones and squawks a mangled series of commands.

Sam doesn’t hear a word. He flips on the radio.

 _Immigrant Song_ blasts through the corroded speakers.

White teeth flashing, Dean howls along with Robert Plant in perfect pitch and synchronization. Hunted. Trailed. Pursued. Hounded. Adrenaline penetrates air, skin, muscle, and veins. Sharp right. Sharp left.

The addictive scent of exhaust, rubber, and motor oil mixes with blaring, defiant, cocky rock pageantry.

Dean slams down on the gas. Time to end this shit.

In a roar, the cop car drives straight through a wooden fence. Splinters and debris fly out like birds from hell. Blood pounds at their temples and ears. Their bones rattle. One of the squad cars attempts to bulldoze through a section of fence, but didn’t get enough pick up. Another spins out.

Seconds later, they find themselves alone.

Back on the main road.

Dean leans back, lets out a deep breath, and starts laughing. Not just a one-off ha ha laugh, but the kind that shakes him from head to toe. The gut-bustin’, eye-crinklin’, slightly-wheezin’, lean in with his whole body laugh.

Sam laughs with him.

“We have approximately twenty-five minutes before they catch up,” Sam declares, arm slung over Dean’s shoulder. “Do you wanna sleep or do you wanna have fun?”

Ready to change gears, Dean answers loud and clear, “Sammy, I wanna have you.”

 

It makes sense that on Dean’s sixtieth birthday, Sam blows him in the backseat of the Impala.

Everything is right in the world because of it.

And Dean is oh so proud he doesn’t need a little blue pill in order to fuck into Sam like the world’s gonna end any minute.

He might need an Aleve for his knee later--but that’s a completely different little blue pill and it can be excused because even though this is _baby_ , car sex is not the world’s most comfortable sex.

Though who needs comfort when they’ve got the scent of leather, gun oil, and lube.

And the sound of Dean thoroughly enjoying the world’s quickest blow job. Sam sucks him down and swallows him deep, fueled by adrenaline, lust, and a possessiveness that threatens to wound him like a bullet from Dean’s ivory grip Colt.

Dean reaches down and holds Sam’s jaw open. Stretched out, on his back, his zipper down and spit-soaked cock out, he slides into Sam’s mouth and throat with one rough push. Sam chokes. His eyes water and he forces the muscles in his throat to relax. He makes it sound just the way Dean wants: wet, messy, hot, and _his_.

“Fuck yes, fuck,” Dean growls, his voice heady, filled with soul and blues and a generous downbeat.

His voice is the only voice that matters to Sam--so unmistakable, so familiar, it could never be confused for another.

Sam blew Dean for the first time ever in a motel room off Route 66.

Twelve years old, Sam lacked talent and finesse. He knew not to use his teeth. He knew that much at least.

Fifty-five years old, Sam likes to think his skills have improved over time.

There are four years, three months, and eight days between their birthdays. Or one thousand five hundred and fifty-nine days apart. Or fifty-one months, eight days. One million, three hundred thirty-four, six hundred ninety-seven, six hundred seconds.

Dean runs his hands through Sam’s hair like a bluesy sway up and down a fretboard.

The windows fog up.

Sam pops off, smacks his lips, leans down, and kisses Dean with all brutal, carnal devotion.

_Sammy, I get all tingly when you take control like that._

_There ain’t no me if there ain’t no you._

_I’m proud of us._

_There’s nothing, past or present, that I would put in front of you._

Flip.

The ability to incorporate the past, present, and future--separate bullets in the same chamber.

Up the tempo. Increase intensity. Dean pulls Sam in by the collar of his plaid shirt and kisses him brutal, carnal, absolutely devoted right back.

They trade licks and bites and drags in a tremulous shuffle of teeth, spit, and lube.

_You’re my weak spot, and I’m yours._

_I don’t need a symbol to remind me how I feel about my brother._

_All that matters now--all that’s ever mattered--is that we’re together._

Dean grinds the tip of his thick, hard cock against the blunt dip of Sam’s slick, pink hole. His rough, calloused hands frame Sam’s ass, blunt fingertips dig into flesh. He holds Sam open, his touch blistering, his hunger palpable.

The Impala’s shock absorbers complain. Sweat rolls down their skin like rivulets. Muscles tense. Senses heighten. The scorching vibration in the middle of their chests demands endless pleasure mixed with pain.

_I’m not leaving you--ever._

_I need him. He needs me._

Sam holds onto the backseat with one hand and the driver’s seat with the other. He lines their hips up and never takes his eyes off Dean.

Ache. Grief. Torture.

Desire. Pleasure. Satisfaction.

Sam bears down. Dean arches up. He pushes into Sam.

Sam takes him in. Every inch, every twitch, every pulse. Sam leans forward, moaning and gasping, his hair framing his face. Skin to skin, hip to hip, Sam’s muscles clench and contract. Squeeze. Grind. Twist.

Madly, wildly, loudly, desperately, roughly--Sam rides Dean’s cock. He shouts to let Dean know how fucking much he loves fucking himself on Dean’s fucking cock. How holy shit, it’s so fucking big, so fucking hard, so fucking _right_ pounding into his ass. How the walls of him feel, sensitive and slick. How the squelch that he hears every time Dean fucks into him. How all of it drives Sam into a frenzy.

How every thrust proves Dean’s alive, breathing, and real.

_You’re the only one that could’ve talked me out of it._

_I love you for trying._

_Poughkeepsie._

Sam rides Dean to orgasm, pleading, begging for Dean to come inside him. Come first. Do it.

“Come for me,” Sam commands in a series of rapid breaths. “Come for me--fuck, fuck, fuck. Dean! Oh fuck, I want it, wanna feel it, come inside... yes, yes, yes…”

Dean brings his hands up to the sides of Sam’s throat. His thumbs slot into a familiar place. He applies pressure. Beautiful, dark, addictive pressure.

“Coming,” he shouts out, leaning up. “Baby, I’m…”

Shadows press against Sam’s periphery. Every nerve, every pleasure receptor amplifies its signal and response. Flooded and dragged down, Sam comes at the same time. His cock spurts come all over Dean’s middle. Dean’s cock spurts into the deepest place inside Sam.

“Again,” Sam snaps, forcing his hips down fast and frantic. “Oh fuck, again!”

His feet braced against the door and the footwell, Dean fucks Sam.

Here is Dean, sixty, with the whole story of his life cut into his flesh.

Shaking, panting, struggling for breath, Sam slumps against Dean.

_Dean?_

_Yeah, Sammy._

_Happy birthday._

_Thanks, Professor. It’s been a good one._

_Yeah?_

_Yeah. Let’s go home._

Precisely four minutes later, cop cars show up and find an empty field.

At 4:02 in the morning, Sam slips into bed, next to Dean, who is already rolled over on his stomach and snoring.

Sam reaches into the wicker basket next to his nightstand and yanks out one of the crocheted blankets Mrs. Martinez made for them two winters ago. He tosses the blanket over Dean and turns out the light.

The house will take a while to feel less frigid, but it’s warming up.

Maybe this wasn’t one hundred percent ComEd’s fault. Maybe the cop car and back road route had required some planning ahead and assistance. Maybe it was just fun to drive, to be chased by something as ordinary as a man with a gun and a pair of handcuffs. Maybe it was just good to see Dean be Dean.

It’s been a tough year.

And no one deserves a better birthday than Dean.

Sam slings an arm over Dean’s waist. Dean stirs and snorts into his pillow.

All these years. All these choices.

All this time put to good use.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!!!! Been a while around these parts! 
> 
> Shout out of gratitude to V, T, J, and Denise for helping me with scenes and self esteem. 
> 
> I'm here for genderqueer Sam. I think Sam is lovely. And I will die on this hill, thanks. 
> 
> I was going for twilight zone meets blues brothers meets supernatural. 
> 
> Thank you all for being here. ❤


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